


Soft Right

by zlotyhero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen, Humanstuck, Multi, War, gunslingerstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlotyhero/pseuds/zlotyhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Opposed to the long-standing war between the Alternian Empire and the relatively peaceful nation of Skaia, Karkat Vantas and his friends defect from the Alternian military with certain secrets filched by one Vriska Serket.</p><p>There are consequences, which include:  a national tragedy, being forced to work for the other team, playing patron to four young cyborgs, and the beginning of an unconventional method of war-waging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Right

He’s never woken up in handcuffs before.

It chafes against his hot skin, and as he blinks bleary, trying to adjust his eyes to the low light filtering in from the ceiling, Karkat yanks the chain between the cuffs taut behind his back. This containment block is fit for a dog, big enough for two at best, and there’s a shrill, sharp inkling of panic when he finds there is a distinct absence of company, no trace of familiarity to be found. 

He did not hold high expectations for familiarity in a foreign land, but he is in the habit of expecting his friends to be within reasonable reach. Unable to break the restraints, he sits up with a wobble. He’s just now flooded with nausea, pooling in the pit of his gut. So this is what it’s like, to sit in the shadow of a disaster.

Karkat imagines Vriska’s glee, and an urge to punch a wall ripples through him. It’s curbed by the fact that his limbs are restrained, of course; even his legs are bound with cords at the ankles. Tensing up with frustration, his mind dips into jarring thought—could these morons possibly have known that he’s the supposed group leader? The logical following is to dispose of the others and intern him for torture and interrogation. He swallows thickly, thinks on the fates of his squadron, on their grim situation as a whole, on horror stories of Skaian captivity, on the collateral damage of his latest stunt. The most he can do is wince and go crazy with wonder, so he stops dead there. 

Panic is a distraction—he has an arsenal of experience and unconventional lessons learned, although a literal arsenal would be a metric fuckton more helpful—he reflects on basic training, finds it a useless waste, racks his head for some ounce of comforting knowledge. All the while, he’s pressing his back against the wall, trying to slide his linked hands under himself. It strains, he stops. He knocks his head back against the wall with a thud, presses his mouth into a thin, quivering line, shakes out breath through flared nostrils. 

His legs lay stilled and immobile in front of him. God, he’s still in his stuffy fatigues, no bloody wonder why they were perceived as a threat. Something needs doing. With his hands settled in unyielding discomfort behind him, Karkat leans forward—chin jutting out, mouth hanging a ways open. The process is halting and vexing, but if he exerts himself, he could be able to reach. He can bite through the ropes regardless of the resultant permanent dental damage, and then… and then he’ll be one step closer to a clean escape. No word on the aftermath of that minute success, where to go or what course of action is the least damned. Under pressure, taking things task by task is the best he can do.

For the esteemed leader of an Alternian specialized task force, Corporal Karkat Vantas is not endowed with any plan-making prowess in the least.

He’s never been very flexible, either. Nonetheless, he exhales steadily, jaw set in determination, waggles his fingers behind himself, and resumes stretching his spine out. He twists his legs to bring his feet closer to his face. The rest of his movements can only be dreadfully slow, taken in taxing inches. Desperation swells, sweat collects on his brow. His thighs ache, his shoulders ache, the base of his spine protests pointedly to the irregularity of his position. He feels like burning, and no one has even conferred torture on him yet! Still, he feels pressed to focus wholeheartedly on nipping at the goddamned ropes. The only alternative is frenzied conjecture, and Karkat would rather maintain a productive mindset in crisis mode than not. 

His teeth make contact with the rope. He lurches forward in pained slights, huffing and emitting the occasional confounded grunt. In the midst of gnawing and grinding and gnashing and clenching his eyes shut tight and cursing the unruly fucking wreck of a world he has the crotch-blistering displeasure of living in, the sole door in the room slides open with an alarming clack.

With a disgraceful lack of balance and an audible yelp, Karkat falls over sideways, turning his head straight away to peer at the figure in the doorway. He traces his sights up the wrinkled fatigues, the hands free at the sides, the casual wifebeater veiling a woman’s figure, all the way up to the grin and the shades and the doubtless squint behind them. Grin and squint. He only straightens out his legs by a small degree, and just stares, taking in the new stimuli and the meanings behind them. 

Karkat’s so relieved that he forgets his compromising position on the floor—she’s sure to find that hilarious. Behind her, he can just make out some faceless guards, standing at the ready with weapons in hand—Skaians, and alongside them, a smug Vriska Serket. Terezi Pyrope’s grin and Vriska Serket’s smirk mean that everyone else is alright at the moment, for sure. 

It also means that there’s probably no immediate end to their entanglement—and by extension, his entanglement—in the affairs of giants and murderers. 

“Corporal Vantas, I’ve been negotiating on our part.” Terezi says, with the most obnoxious pretense of formality as Karkat takes the time to scowl at her, turning his face up. The floor’s cool on his cheek, anyway, and scrambling upwards at their arrival seems undignified. He should really like to get out of these bindings, but no one seems in any rush to free him. 

“I’ve come to bail you out for the three-hundred and eleventh time, boss,” Terezi continues, cheerful. Well, that’s an arbitrary number but it’s starting to seem accurate.

“You’re definitely late this time. Shabby work,” Karkat responds tiredly. His voice is throaty with sleep and exhaustion. “By any chance, do you want to explain—“ She cuts him off sharp. He sees that she wants to lead the conversation—she’s covering in case he accidentally lets something strategically dire slip through while Skaian guards await just behind her. Her constant underestimation of his intelligence and awareness is incensing, but it's good to know that they're not entirely out of trouble just yet.

“I have good news and bad news!” God, she is taking her saccharine sweet jumped up time with this one. Stop skirting around it, moron, he wants to say, but that line of thought seems a gateway to more quiet, bustling anxiety, so instead there is always the simplicity of blasé pessimism. 

“You mean bad news and significantly worse news?”

“Oh? How do you figure?” Terezi steps forward, her boots coming to rest in front of his eyes. Awfully worn out by now. He wonders when they’re all going to retire combat boots for good. 

“I live a regrettable existence.” Karkat says, squinting back up at her. “Untie me now.”


End file.
